


Tied With a Red Ribbon

by samanthahirr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Burglary, Crime Fighting, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Flirting, Florist Derek Hale, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Magical Realism, Meet-Cute, Red String of Fate, Soulmates, Sterek Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: When deputy Stiles investigates a series of burglaries, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to a flower shop run by the man of his dreams. Suddenly Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s chasing after a pair of criminals...or something much more important.A red string of fate AU.





	Tied With a Red Ribbon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/gifts).



> Written for this [amazing photoset prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296400/chapters/35487189) by [Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/), who inspired me to write magical realism for the first time, and it was freaking delightful! Thanks as always to my beta [cinaea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea/pseuds/cinaea) and to the mods who organized this year's Sterek Reverse Bang!

The station receptionist has been lingering in the coffee room for the past 10 minutes, staring through the glass wall to the bullpen with blatant fascination. Stiles doesn't blame her; there's a particularly remarkable view today—one that's six feet tall, dark haired with manscaped stubble, and built like a running back. 

Stiles steals a few covert glances around his computer monitor before deciding to reposition for a better angle. He slips away from his desk and cozies up to Lucinda by the coffee machine, figuring she'll have the dirt on their visitor. "Who's the hottie?" he asks.

She takes a sip of her coffee, her gaze never leaving the guy towering over Detective Paulson's desk. "Concerned citizen," she says. "Here about those burglaries down in Old Town." 

The guy's arms are folded across his chest—showing off a spectacular set of biceps—with a scowl darkening his handsome features. "He doesn't look too happy," Stiles notes. 

She shrugs. "Paulson's been dodging this guy's phone calls for a couple days. I guess he hasn't had any time to work on it."

Stiles nods. He heard Paulson got pulled onto the meth-ring investigation—the one that's been eating up more and more of the department's resources for weeks. A handful of small-time smash-and-grabs is hardly the sheriff's priority right now. Still, it sucks that this extremely good-looking guy is left twisting in the wind while his neighborhood gets burgled. 

It's out of civic duty that Stiles is contemplating stealing Paulson's case files on the burglaries and taking them home with him tonight. Civic duty and nothing else. Definitely not the way the guy fills out his jeans—and yeah, this is a _much_ better angle for appreciating that view. 

It's not like Paulson's around to notice the files missing this week anyway. And what his dad never knows, Stiles can't get in trouble for. At least, not any worse than he already is. 

"So what, he's just planning on looming over an empty desk until Paulson shows up?"

"I hope so," Lucinda says. She takes another sip and sighs quietly. "Look at his _shoulders_."

Oh, Stiles is looking. The guy's wearing a red t-shirt, the fabric loose at his waist but clinging to his shoulders in a way that makes Stiles's mouth water. "You should probably tell him that Paulson's on a stakeout today."

"Totally. But let's not rush things. Technically I'm still on my break."

"Copy that," Stiles says. He fixes his own mug of coffee and settles in to enjoy the view.

~

Officially, Stiles is restricted to desk duty this month. And even worse than a month stuck sitting in the station, Stiles is banned from assisting on any and all cases, consigned to the brain-atrophying job of inventory filing. It's the closest the sheriff could get to grounding his 23-year-old son-slash-deputy for failing to wait for backup three weeks ago. Not that Stiles hadn't handled that situation fine on his own. It was just a little drunk and disorderly at the local pool hall; the woman was more a danger to herself than to Stiles.

After another mind-numbing shift of filing, Stiles changes back to his civilian clothes in the locker room and heads for the door with his messenger bag banging against his hip. Definitely _not_ humming the _Mission: Impossible_ theme under his breath, he saunters between the desks, playing with his phone like he isn't paying attention to where he's going, and oh-so-accidentally knocking the stack of case files off the corner of Paulson's desk. 

Parrish sticks his head out of his office to give Stiles a slow clap, because he's an asshole. Stiles drops to the linoleum floor to sort through the mess he's made, and oh look, he's accidentally misplaced the burglaries file in his own bag, what a silly mix up—he'll fix that tomorrow for sure.

Whistling, Stiles puts the rest of the stack back in place and heads out to his Jeep, throwing Parrish a two-fingered salute as he goes.

~

He can't fault Detective Paulson's work.

Stiles has poured over the 30+ interviews of victims and neighbors (no substantial leads), the list of stolen items (mostly cash, with the occasional leather jacket or pair of sneakers), the grainy stills from the two places that kept security tapes, and the psych profiles that Paulson assembled. There's just precious little concrete evidence to go on. It's a couple of guys in hoodies and ball caps, probably late-teens judging by their unsophisticated MO and modest takes, hitting one store every few nights. Paulson's sent a request to Riverdale County for info on a few similar burglaries they had a couple months ago; maybe it's the same guys, maybe not.

There's a call log with messages from a bunch of shop owners on the street requesting increased patrols at night, but Stiles knows there's no manpower available, not with the attorney general pressuring his dad about the meth dealers. If he weren't grounded, Stiles would sign out a patrol car and spend his nights driving the neighborhood off-duty. A little visual deterrence might at least slow the spree down a bit.

What this case really calls for is a stakeout. But there's no seeming rhyme or reason to which shops are burgled. If they can't anticipate where the thieves will strike, a stakeout is useless.

Frustrated, Stiles turns to his yarn wall for inspiration. He starts with a map of the area, placing push pin flags at every location they've struck. From a few feet away, he tries to unfocus his eyes and take in the colorful dots, but no pattern emerges. Alright, he'll take it to the next level. He ties a strand of red yarn from pin to pin, tracing the burglars' path chronologically. Again, no obvious pattern emerges. Seven lines, connecting eight locations, crisscrossed all over each other, encompassing the full breadth of the neighborhood—it might as well be a toddler's aimless scribbling. 

Stiles scowls and twists the loose end of the string between his fingers as he takes it in. Nothing seems to be jumping out at him, not even any similarities between targets. He traces over the spider web of red, going point-by-point again, until the path ends, and his fingers come to rest on a random street corner. He taps at the map idly, fingertip smoothing over the rough yarn, then starts again. First, to Second, to Third, and so forth, until his fingers loop around Eight and land at that same intersection, a block away from the third burglary and within five blocks of a couple others. 

Which is a coincidence. Totally random. And there's no reason for the prickling sensation that's building between his shoulder blades right now.

Stiles fumbles his phone out and Googles the intersection, finding one listing for a storefront on that corner, a florist shop called Beacon Blooms. 

It doesn't ring any bells for him, but when he traces his fingers over the map a third time, the red string still draws his hand to that location. And he has no idea why. His dad's long extolled the virtue of trusting his gut, and Stiles has had his fair share of hunches pay off over the past few years, but there is literally _zero evidence_ to support his...suspicion?...that this location is vital to solving the case. 

But he _feels_ certain. 

Maybe he just needs to sleep on it. It's well-past 2 a.m.; the map will probably look different in the morning. And if it doesn't, he can swing by Beacon Blooms after his shift tomorrow night to check it out.

He's almost through his bedroom door when he turns back to the map, presses a pin on that baffling street corner, and loops the string around it. Just in case.

~

The following evening he pulls up outside Beacon Blooms under the yellow glow of refurbished gas lamps lining the streets of historic Old Town. He's a couple hours past closing; the street shut down at 7:00, and it's dark inside the shop. Stiles sits in his vehicle and goes over his notes again, trying to come up with _any_ reason for his gut to direct him here. The shop is owned by one Derek Hale, a long-time resident of Beacon County, and one of the many names on Paulson's call log demanding updates on the ongoing investigation. Maybe Mr. Hale knows something? Or saw something he hasn't realized is important? 

If he'd intended to interview Mr. Hale, he should have made an effort to stop by while the store was still open, Stiles realizes. He scrubs a hand through his hair and stares at the shop some more. He'll just have to come back tomorrow; there's no point staying.

But something moves inside the shop, a shape passing in front of a wall of refrigerated display cases. Stiles jerks to attention and slides out of the Jeep, onto the sidewalk where he can peer through the glass. It looks like a man fussing with the vases of bouquets in the case. Stiles's heart leaps as he realizes that this must be....

"Mr. Hale," Stiles yells, and thumps his fist against the window. 

The figure approaches, limned from behind, his face obscured. "We're closed," he shouts back.

Stiles pulls open his wallet and presses his badge against the glass. "I'm with the Sheriff's Department."

The guy leans forward into a shaft of golden street light, and Stiles must have some seriously amazing karma working for him, because it's the gorgeous guy from the station. Stiles closes his mouth just in time to avoid getting caught gaping. After a moment, Derek Hale unlocks a couple deadbolts and opens the door. "About time," he says, holding the door for Stiles to enter. "Are you Detective Paulson?"

"No, Deputy Stilinski." He slides past Derek into the dark shop, where the air is dry and over–air-conditioned, with a pleasant, floral fragrance. The only light source is the wall of refrigeration units; their riot of colorful bouquets draws his eye. "I'm uh, lending a hand while Paulson's unavailable. I understand you have some concerns you wanted to discuss with him?"

"Yes," Derek huffs. "Hang on a sec." He flips the deadbolts again and walks past Stiles, deeper into the shop. "Come back here, I'm in the middle of orders." 

He leads Stiles down a dim hallway then turns left into a large back room that's filled to overflowing with all kinds of flowers and plants, life bursting out in every direction. The air back here feels humid, thick in Stiles's lungs, and near-overpowering with the scents of pollen and soil.

Derek heads to the one illuminated corner of the room where a work table stands under two pendant lights. "So thanks for coming. I've only left you guys like 10 messages." He turns his back, tears a sheet of clear cellophane off a roll, and lays it out on the table.

Stiles ambles closer to his prickly host. "Right, Paulson sends his apologies."

"And what did you say your name was?"

"Deputy Stilinski."

Derek turns and gives him an all-too-familiar look. "Stilinski? Like the Sheriff?"

"Yeah, my dad," Stiles says and firmly shortcuts past the usual questions. "You can just call me Deputy. Or Stiles. I'd prefer Stiles."

"Stiles—that sounds like a skateboard shop. Or a DJ."

"What can I say, 8-year-old me really locked-in on his career goals early."

Derek snorts. "Okay, DJ Stiles, you can call me Derek. What's the news on the case?"

Is no news good news? In this situation, definitely not. Stiles dodges that question like an MLL midfielder. "I'm actually hear to ask _you_ a few questions."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "My store wasn't burgled though."

"No, I know. It's more background information for the neighborhood, filling in some gaps. It could be very helpful."

"Okay. Shoot."

Stiles leans his hip against the work table, pulls out a blank notepad, and squints at the empty pages as though he actually has a series of questions pre-planned and is picking where to start. He only has one chance to make a good impression on the most distractingly handsome guy he's ever met. "Thank you. Great. Um, you haven't been burgled. But you're very concerned about the investigation."

"Damn right. Some of my friends have gotten robbed. And I figure it'll happen to me eventually. I live right upstairs—I don't want anyone breaking into my place when I'm asleep."

"Oh you—you live upstairs? Do you live alone?"

"I have a dog, but he's getting up there in years and is pretty hard of hearing. He's not much of a security guard anymore."

 _lives alone, dog, awww_ , Stiles scribbles. He suppresses the urge to draw a heart. He needs to focus.

"Have you lived in Beacon Hills long?"

"I was born and raised in Beacon County. Left for college, then came back and moved into Old Town about...five years ago."

"Which school did you go to?"

"Beacon Hills High."

Stiles blinks. "I meant college, but—"

Derek laughs and scratches his cheek, abruptly bashful. "Sorry. I get asked that question a lot, and they always mean high school around here."

"Once a Cyclone, always a Cyclone."

"Hey, yeah! Did you play?"

"Yeah, lacrosse for three years. I'm not gonna lie, most of those games I spent on the bench, but I got some good field time in."

"Baseball for me. We went all the way to the State Championship my senior year."

"You were class of 2010! Man, that's all Finstock talked about. He called you guys 'the only decent players he ever coached.'"

Derek laughs again and leans against the table, his hips angled toward Stiles, mirroring him. According to Stiles's Psychology 204 class, that's a great sign. "Coach Finstock. I haven't thought about him in years—"

"But you still have nightmares," Stiles recites the classic alumni joke. Derek gives him a high five. "Fuck, he hates it when I drop by."

"You've gone back?"

"A few times. My dad makes me deliver the annual safety assembly. And I do crowd control at the bigger grudge-games. What about you?"

"I haven't been. Maybe I should check out a game sometime, heckle Finstock a bit."

"You totally should! There's a baseball game on Friday. It's against Cherryfield, so I have to work it, but maybe I'd see you there."

Derek looks pleased and thoughtful, but he doesn't respond to Stiles's super-smooth invitation. Instead, after a beat he says, "University of Washington, by the way. Is where I went to college."

"Oh, thanks." Stiles makes a show of scribbling that down. He can't believe how quickly Derek thawed, but now he has to think of a way to keep it going. He clears his throat but can't keep the smile off his face when he looks up again. "Um, I have a few more questions, if you don't mind." 

"I'm the one who got us off topic. Go ahead."

"How well would you say you know your neighbors?"

Derek frowns, considering. "That depends on the neighbor. How much detail do you want?"

"As much as you can give me," Stiles says.

Derek nods and purses his lips for a moment before launching into a thorough description of every resident on the block, plus the ones across the street, and a few north and south of his shop. 

Stiles makes active-listening noises and tries to keep his fingers scribbling, even as the information goes in one ear and out the other. Nearly all Stiles's attention is taken up by admiring how Derek looks in the soft light of the work station. Yesterday Derek had been pale and stern, all scowls and folded arms. Tonight, he's friendly and animated, a warm glow to his cheeks as he offers wry asides about some of his more ludicrous neighbors. Stiles would even go so far as to use the word 'adorable.'

Derek finishes up with, "Plus there are the regular customers, but I can't tell you where they live, sorry."

"Wow," Stiles says, awed. "You know a _lot_ about your neighbors."

Derek tilts his head. "You say that like it's weird."

"It is!" Stiles blurts. "I've had my apartment for nearly two years, and I barely know my landlord's name! I could pick a few neighbors out of a lineup, but I don't know what newspapers they read or what time they walk their pets every night." It's an exaggeration—Stiles wouldn't be his father's son if he hadn't done a background check on all of his neighbors. He doesn't speak to them, but he knows enough to consider them safe to live near. But still, he likes teasing Derek, seeing the earnest look on his face as he tries to correct Stiles's behavior.

"No, _that's_ weird. They're your neighbors, your community. Everyone is interconnected, and the more time and energy you share with other people, the more comes back to you."

"Wow, yep, that sounds like U-Wash to me."

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Stiles relents. "I'm kidding! It's cool that you feel that way. If more people felt the same, my job would be a lot more boring—in a good way."

Mollified, Derek resettles his weight and checks his watch. Stiles realizes he's lost track of the time himself. 

"I'm not keeping you from a hot date, am I?" he asks, fishing.

Derek shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. It's just getting kind of late, and I want to get these orders finished before tomorrow. Do you mind if I cut some flowers while we talk?"

"No problem. Or...do you want me to help? I'm great with my hands."

Derek smirks, obviously picking up on Stiles's innuendo—it's not like he was subtle—but agrees. He sets Stiles up with a spool of red ribbon and some wire twist-ties and begins demonstrating how to tie a layered bow. 

"Wow," Stiles says a minute later, when Derek sets the finished bow aside. "I'm thinking you might be better with your hands than I am."

Derek chuckles. "It's not that hard—mostly just repetition. Come on, try it." He tips his chin encouragingly before shifting a few steps to the right. With a set of shears in one hand and long-stemmed daisies in the other, he turns on the water in a recessed sink. 

Stiles tells himself he can do this. He _has_ to do this. Tonight is his perfect chance to convince Derek that he's competent at his job, and charming, and a dog-person, and, most importantly, dating-material. He takes a deep breath and dives in, laying down his left loop, pinch-twist, right loop, pinch-twist, left loop, pinch-twist, and then stops to shake his wrist free of the long strand he's somehow wound around his arm. He's aware Derek is watching his attempts from the corner of his eye, so Stiles blurts, "Which of your neighbors would you say were already security-conscious, before the first burglaries?"

Derek hums thoughtfully, snips a stem under the running water, and starts reminiscing about life in the neighborhood before the current crime wave, neatly distracted from Stiles's ribbon struggles. 

It hadn't looked that hard when Derek did it—a series of loops of 2-inch-wide, vibrant red silk, the texture soft and appealing. Stiles undoes his first attempt and tries it again slower, getting all eight loops pinched together this time—it actually is straightforward once he has the knack. He reaches around to make the center loop over his fingers and brings the wire underneath to twist it all together in a not-too-shabby approximation of a layered bow.

And of course, that's when he gets _really_ tangled up.

"Uh...could you show me the tying off part again?"

Derek glances over and bursts out laughing. 

Stiles's cheeks heat. He twists his wrist to see what's happening underneath, where he's somehow gotten his fingers tied up with the wire, and what looks like five feet of ribbon wrapped around his waist. 

Derek towels off his hands and picks up the shears. "Hang on. Step one, you cut the ribbon before you use the wire." He reaches across Stiles and snips the ribbon off below his wrist. Stiles holds still as Derek runs both hands into the pile of ribbon loops, feeling where Stiles's fingers have entangled. With Derek pressed up against his shoulder, Stiles can smell his aftershave, a woodsy scent like oak and moss under the prevalent floral smells of the work room. It's lovely.

"You're still pinching the loops, right?"

Stiles nods. 

"Good, keep hold of those. I've got the wire—" his fingers entwine with Stiles's for a moment, slightly damp but warm, and Stiles is tempted to turn his face and kiss Derek. He could claim it was an accident; Derek might even buy it. And then Derek says, right next to his ear, "I hope this isn't turning you off of floral design."

"Not turning me off, no," Stiles says, and then they're both laughing, nervous and awkward but also relieved to break the tension. Stiles chances a glance at Derek's face; he looks a little pink-cheeked himself. 

"This'll only take a second. There, I've got you," Derek says. He withdraws his hands from the layered bow, fingers sliding against Stiles's in what Stiles would love to label a caress. "You did it."

Stiles looks at the lopsided bow dangling off his thumb by its center loop. "And only a little bit of a disaster." 

Derek tugs on the ribbon, evening out the lengths, but then his hand stops, and all the air gusts out of him, like he took a body check right to the solar plexus.

Concerned, Stiles looks over and realizes Derek is staring...at his trembling hand. Derek extends his arm fully, stretches out his fingers, and makes a waving motion in the air. "Derek? What's the matter?"

"I can't believe it." Derek turns toward Stiles and brings his left hand up to touch Stiles's cheek, his eyes wide and full. " _It's you_ ," he murmurs, and then kisses him. 

Stiles's knees go a little weak, his skin prickling both hot and cold, as Derek nuzzles against his lips. Stiles moans into the touch, lips falling open, breathing in Derek's breath. His arms drape over Derek's shoulders, holding him close.

"I've been waiting so long, and finally," Derek says between slow, sweet kisses. His stubble rasps against Stiles's own, and Stiles doesn't know what Derek's talking about, but the awe in his voice is contagious. Stiles feels an answering declaration bubbling up, pressing at his heart, a nonsensical and terrifying impulse, and he kisses Derek harder to keep it buried inside, sliding his lips over Derek's and brushing their tongues together.

Derek wraps an arm around Stiles's waist and pulls their hips together, and Stiles groans into the pressure, the way Derek's thigh fits between his own, proprietary. This is everything he wants to do for the rest of his life, entwined with Derek, rocking slowly together as Stiles coaxes more strange promises from Derek's lips—

—and then there's a loud crash of shattering glass, and Stiles whirls around, placing himself between Derek and the door to the hallway, the hallway to the front room, and the wall of windows that someone has just smashed through! He suddenly _knows_ why he's here tonight, and he'll be damned if he lets Derek down now.

"What the hell—" Derek is saying behind him, even as Stiles pulls out his phone and shoves it at him with the hissed order to call 911. 

He looks around and grabs up the first weapon he sees—a bundle of thin bamboo poles wrapped in plastic. Derek's already talking urgent and low into the phone as Stiles heads into the darkness of the hall, ears straining for clues to what he'll face ahead.

More glass tinkling, footsteps crunching through it, a male voice saying, "It's good, it's good." And another responding, "Fuck, man," sounding strained.

Stiles peeks around the last doorway into the shop room and sees, by the light of the refrigerators, one person in a ball cap and hoodie hauling unsuccessfully at a cash register, and a lookout, similarly dressed, standing just inside the window.

"It's fucking nailed down," the one at the register whines. "Get over here and help!"

Stiles shouts, "Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department!"

Two simultaneous shouts of surprise answer, and then the lookout takes off, tumbling out onto the sidewalk and running for all he's worth.

Stiles swings his bamboo bundle at the nearer perp, catching his shoulder as he tries to turn and follow. The shock of the impact rattles up the poles and up into his arms, and he drops the bundle, his fingers briefly numbed. But he's set the guy off balance; the perp falls against the counter, and Stiles jumps onto his back, trying to wrestle him down. He's thrown off, and the guy swings wildly at him, the first punch going wide, the second connecting with Stiles's cheekbone. Stiles manages to catch a swinging elbow, hooks his arm around it, and drops to the floor, dragging the guy down alongside him.

They flail gracelessly, elbows and knees aiming for vulnerable spots, until the guy wriggles on top of Stiles, a fist rising in the air...before he suddenly squawks, bodily dragged to the side. Stiles spares a glance to see Derek hauling on the guy's ankle, before Stiles rolls onto the burglar, pins a knee on the guy's lower back, and traps one of his arms.

With his free hand, he reaches for his handcuffs...which aren't on his belt, because he's wearing fucking jeans, because he's fucking off-duty. "Shit, uh, can you find something to tie him up with?" Stiles asks Derek.

Thirty seconds later, he's binding the guy's wrists with twine while Derek hovers anxiously across from him, spools of ribbon scattered around them. Derek is wide-eyed in the glow of the refrigerators, panting for breath right along with Stiles, and for a crazy second it feels like they were never interrupted—like they're just catching their breaths in the middle of making out, and Stiles could lean over this guy's wriggling body and taste Derek's lips again.

"You're incredible," Derek says, and licks his ridiculously perfect lips, and more kissing is totally about to happen, despite the bitching and cursing of the guy under them, but Stiles hears the first siren roaring up the street, bringing with it flashing blue lights that strobe over their little scene, breaking the spell.

"Oh my god," Stiles says dazedly as the magnitude of his actions sinks in. He just foiled a burglary and caught one of the most wanted men in Beacon County red handed. The crime wave is probably over thanks to him. And he's about to be in so much fucking trouble.

A car door slams outside, and Derek stands and turns on the overhead lights just in time for Deputy Craig to look through the open window and say, "God damn, Stilinski, how'd you get here so fast?"

Stiles isn't prepared to answer that question. "He had an accomplice—took off on foot, heading south a couple minutes ago," he says instead.

Craig calls that in while Derek helps Stiles to his feet. And then Stiles notices the fanciful red ribbon he'd made, still dangling from his left hand, now mangled and squashed. 

Derek gently slides it off his finger and sets it on the counter. "That's your good luck charm," he tells Stiles. He threads his fingers through Stiles's. "And you're mine."

The guy makes a gagging sound, and Stiles sets his foot on the perp's shoulder to remind him that he's still under arrest. "Yeah. Okay," he says—sighs, really. And then he shakes his head. "I should probably finish arresting this guy."

Derek beams at Stiles like he hung the moon. "I guess so."

"That means I have to go back to the station. There's gonna be paperwork. And processing. It's gonna take a while."

Derek leans in and steals a quick kiss that Stiles doesn't get to fully enjoy, distracted by the thought of Craig standing just outside, and the shop lit up bright as Easter morning. "Go do your job, and I'll see you soon. I know where to find you now."

Stiles wants to ask what Derek means, wants to ask Derek out on a date, wants to stake some kind of claim here and now. But what he ends up blurting is, "Your phone number's in the file," like some creepy stalker. 

Derek laughs, though, so Stiles figures he did okay.

~

The next morning Stiles sits at his desk in the bullpen, grinding through more stacks of filing. Every twenty minutes he raises or lowers the ice pack that's been cooling his left cheek. And every time his hand moves, he thinks he sees a flash of red out the corner of his eye, like his layered ribbon is still dangling from his finger. It keeps reminding him of Derek, of how it felt to hold him and kiss him last night, the way Derek had looked at him when he'd tied the bow correctly, when he'd stopped the burglar. 

Stiles has been avoiding pulling up Derek's phone number. He woke up this morning with a bruised cheekbone, an adrenaline hangover, and a totally rational plan to visit Derek's shop tonight after his shift: Stiles has tomorrow off duty, so if he can hold out until tonight, they'll have a couple days to explore whatever might be developing between them. Even if it's just Stiles's previously undiscovered talents in bow-tying. 

But he remembers the way Derek touched his cheek and twined their fingers together, and he's pretty sure there's a whole lot more for them to figure out together. _After_ he logs another 5 hours of filing.

Stiles sets down the ice pack, glimpses red again, reaches for another manila folder, and remembers that patience is overrated. After all, no one will mind if he takes an early lunch and swings by Derek's shop for a quick chat. He's halfway across the bullpen before he even completes the thought.

And then his father barks his name. 

Stiles looks up to see the sheriff stalking toward him, blocking the path to the exit. "Uh, hi dad. What's up?"

"How are you feeling?" his dad asks in a too-familiar tone of annoyed concern.

"Good, really good." He got a handshake and a six-pack of IPA from Detective Paulson this morning, plus a chance to sit in on his interrogation of the burglar. His cheek is adequately numbed from the ice-pack, and he's about to go look for the man of his dreams, who seems to be equally into Stiles. "I'm actually just heading out for lunch now...." He makes a motion as though to slide past, but his father grabs his arm.

"Not so fast. I need to talk to you about your report."

"What about it? It was on your desk first thing this morning, just like you wanted." That had been a particularly awkward phone conversation last night, standing on the sidewalk outside Beacon Blooms while his dad freaked out about Stiles's safety on speakerphone loud enough that Craig and Johnson could overhear everything. He gets that his dad loves him and all, but it was excruciatingly embarrassing when he'd been feeling his most heroic.

The sheriff folded his arms, a stubborn set to his jaw. "There's one detail you neglected to include. A very important detail."

There were quite a few 'very important details' Stiles had omitted. He's too smart to just volunteer them though. He shrugs innocently.

"What you were doing there in the first place."

Fuck, it figures his dad would go straight for the kill. "What I was doing there? Last night?" Stiles repeats, stalling. There's no way to answer this question without revealing that he'd hopped onto Paulson's case against the sheriff's explicit instructions.

"Yes, Stiles. Last night," his dad says, achieving peak-patronizing. "How did you just _happen_ to be at that shop in time to _coincidentally_ arrest a burglar that this department has been chasing for weeks?"

He has to say something. "I was...uh. I was...seeing my boyfriend," Stiles lies. Does it really count as a lie if he makes it true by the end of the day? Truth can work retroactively, right?

"Your boyfriend?" His dad stares him down for a long minute, eyes narrowed in interrogation mode, before his posture relaxes and a broad smile cracks his face. "Finally."

Stiles blinks.

"I swear, ever since you moved out, it's been pulling teeth getting you to tell me anything about your personal life."

"I'm sorry?"

His dad claps him on the shoulder and shakes him a little. "Don't be sorry. Just bring that guy around for Sunday dinner sometime soon. I've got a good feeling about him." He jerks his thumb toward the lobby, and Stiles staggers forward with his mind reeling, wondering if his dad actually means...

...that Derek is standing in the lobby of the sheriff's station, holding a vase of red roses tied round with a red-ribbon layered bow. A bow that is suspiciously mangled and squashed. 

"What are you doing here?" Stiles gasps. Even with Derek standing right in front of him with a showy, romantic gesture in his arms, an incandescent smile lighting up Derek's face apparently at the sight of him, Stiles can barely believe that he's the intended recipient.

"I wanted to see you again." As Stiles gets closer, Derek lowers his voice to add, "And ask if you'd like to have dinner with me. Tonight. At my place." 

Behind Derek, Lucinda starts pantomiming praising the Lord.

"Yes. Yes, yes, absolutely yes," Stiles says. "This is..." he tweaks the ribbon, "really something. You didn't have to bring me anything."

"I wanted to." Derek reaches out, catching Stiles's left hand with his, hooking their pinky fingers together. "Do you believe in fate?"

Two days ago, Stiles would have said _hell no_ , but today he's not so sure. He confesses as much to Derek, who nods and kisses Stiles finger. 

"When you come over tonight, I've got some stories to share with you. Stuff my grandma brought over from the old country."

"About fate?"

"And love," Derek says, and leans in and kisses him.

Stiles doesn't know what to make of that promise, but he's got a hunch he can figure it out eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Reblogging pretty gifs on [Tumblr](http://samanthahirr.tumblr.com/)!


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